


He Spent A Week In Jail

by GayChaton



Category: 21 Chump Street - Miranda
Genre: (Ish) - Freeform, Angst, Drug Dealing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Happy Ending, Not RPF, Prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 17:42:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9669257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GayChaton/pseuds/GayChaton
Summary: A whole week of emotional instability? It's kinda surprising to me that that only got half a line of a song. Must have been rough, having your trust betrayed and then being left in the prison system.(Someone had to be the first to legit write about this, right?)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that I intend this solely about the characters as they are represented in the musical, not the real people. While I did do my homework on the interviews, it's not about the actual people, but rather the characters that were portrayed.
> 
> Because Lin's characters need to learn how to support Anthony's characters tbh.

There was a lot of time to waste in the jail cell.

Justin was alone, to his surprise. When he thought of the charge, he supposed that he would be put in with his other classmates who'd suffered the same charges, but the system had placed him alone and he couldn't exactly ask to change.

On the first day he went over what happened. It was rough, and his chest ached and pricked every time he breathed in. He got his first and only visitor that day. His mother, who asked him how he got into this mess. He didn't answer and time ran up before his mother could get angry at him.

The lawyer also saw him that first day. The tall gentleman shuffled his papers and furrowed his eyebrows. "The case itself will boil down to the evidence which is certain, as your word will contradict the undercover officer's. The best option I can provide you with is a guilty plea, which will give you the least harsh result that I can foresee. Finally, the felony charge will only result in three years' parole."

Only three years. Yeah right.

The walls were white bricks coated in some sort of a sealing sheen which made light reflect off them quite easily. There was a small window, but the glass was thick and intentionally fogged so that only light could be seen. In actuality, the room was only as wide as his bed, but he spent his time in the corner of the bed anyway so it didn't make much of a difference.

He wondered where he went wrong. Had he, actually? It was hard to tell. He just knew that he'd been fully prepared to do anything for her, and he'd meant anything.

The look on her face as she quietly begged him to accept her cash was a painful memory. Those minutes where she was pleading him to do so, when she guilt tripped him, when she told him that if he would do anything for her he would do this–

(Why was she quiet? Why was she even worrying about the teacher, was the teacher not in on it? Or had she tricked everybody in the school?)

He wondered how he looked after that brief silence when he realized she was literally going to pay him back. He could only imagine that he looked heartbroken.

When he refused to take her money, he had a plethora of reasons. The first and foremost was that he would have done it for free anyway; the promise of a shot at intimacy as a result was just an added bonus. Still, he wanted to help her as he had the whole time. She wanted a fresh start with her mother, and if they needed to escape from their past with drugs, who was Justin to step in the way? And anyways, if they were making a fresh start, that money could go a long ways. That money could be what they needed to put food on a plate or keep electricity, and Justin couldn't bear the thought that he could coldly just become the one who took that from somebody. He didn't have the heart.

And he knew (of course he knew, he knew now) that if he went against her she's deny it for the sake of her reputation and the reputation of the police force. She would deny that she manipulated him, that she broke his heart—

He needed to stop thinking that way.

He took a deep breath, shook his head, and began again.

She would deny that she took advantage of him. She would say that he initiated and she played along with her cover.

Of course she would. She was never who he thought she was.

He got a phone call from a family friend the next day, but it only bore worse news. With a felony on record, he'd never be allowed into the air forces. He couldn't even apply; such a criminal record disqualified him entirely.

He got upset. He knew this ruined his chances at scholarships and college, but this was a low blow. He'd wanted to do something— to make something out of his life. He wanted to do more than sit around and do nothing for the world, he'd wanted to help people and make a difference. It was the reason he'd fought for those straight As, and why he'd finished his homework well before it was due.

Two days spent a crying mess; pathetic and unmanly like he thought he could be. He wondered if he had to be, if it even really mattered if anyone wasn't around to see it. He didn't get out of bed other than to move for retrieving food trays and the bathroom.

He was a mess, a complete mess. He wondered if his cousins would even think he was worth helping after this. Three years of parole, that alone would put a bad reputation on the family.

He thought of disappointing his family, and cried again.

On his last day in prison, he got a visitor. The guard came for him and told him and he only half pulled himself up out of the bed. "I already got my visitor though?"

"It's a journalist, it's more of a national record keeping than a visit," the guard said, opening the barred door for him.

He followed, head down all the way through unfamiliar corridors to a room more secluded than he one he'd met his mother in. This was almost akin to an interrogation room. The man inside sat at the table, shoulders pulled back and eyes peering through glasses down at the papers in front of him before he looked up at the arrival of the newcomers.

"Hello," he said, his gentle smile becoming audible.

"Uh, hey," Justin said, glancing at the guard. She did nothing more than step outside and close the door, so Justin paused. After half a second he pulled back the chair opposite of the strange man and sat down in a jerky motion.

"My name is Ira Glass. I'm a journalist for the radio program This American Life," he said. His voice was like honey; Justin would have to lie to say it wasn't the most comforting thing he'd heard in the past week.

"W-what do ya need me for, man?" Justin asked. "Am I supposed to be your next story or somethin'?"

The look on the man's face looked stricken and sad. "Justin," he said, "you're more than a story to tell."

Justin shook his head, and looked at the man again. Scruffy beard, black glasses, and very long dark hair that fell around his shoulders. "Your hair's long, man," Justin said.

"So is yours," Ira responded. "Mine's been brushed though. Do they not provide you with a hairbrush here?"

"Uh," Justin paused at the odd question. "Maybe they did, uh, I haven't been exactly lookin' for one."

There was a pause. After a moment, Ira put his hands on the table and looked Justin in the eyes. "Here's what I'm here to ask, Justin. I would very much like to do a brief piece on your experience with the undercover police in your high school. What that would entail is an interview where you tell the story as you experienced it. I'm asking if you would like to do this as well."

"For what?" Justin scoffed. "So people can hear my sob story and all? There's thirty kids that got arrested, you coulda asked any of them."

"They're not you, Justin," Ira said.

Justin's fists tightened. "Please man, don't offer me kindness if you aren't gonna help me—"

"But what if this does help you, Justin? What if telling your story gets your name out there, and gets you support?"

Justin shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair. Like Ira had said, it was tangled and curly and wasn't likely to be tamed any time soon. "I just wanted to help people, man."

"Justin?"

He looked up. "Yea?"

"I really think that someone could hear your story and find solace in it. But only if we tell it first," Ira said.

Justin looked in his eyes, searching for that shifty, deflective look that he'd seen in Naomi. At the time he'd thought it was her playing hard to get, but now he realized that none of the girls he'd ever dated had that look. It was the look of deception, but when he looked at Ira, he found nothing of the sort. Only soft eyes gently asking a question.

"I'm down with that," Justin nodded. "It'd be an honor, Mr. Glass."

"Please, call me Ira."

"Alright dude, whatever you say Mr. Glass." For the first time in a week, Justin smiled.


End file.
